


Green and Blue

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [30]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Interior Decorating, Jealous Robin, it’s just some fluff to get us through lockdown, likely rating change, oblivious Strike, probable smut, there is no point to this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:13:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 18,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24071194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Robin has an interior decorating disaster.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [30]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 241
Kudos: 149





	1. Daiquiri Ice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hobbeshalftail3469](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbeshalftail3469/gifts).



> The outline for this was hatched months ago in London with Hobbeshalftail3469, but it’s never really come to fruition. I’m going to tackle it though and just let it meander where it wants to go. Pure escapism and fluff. And probably smut, because why not.

“Another?” Strike indicated Robin’s empty wine glass with his pint which was three quarters empty.

Robin hesitated, glancing around. The Tottenham was filling up with Friday night drinkers and was getting loud, and she’d already had two glasses. It had been a long, hot day in the office, stuffy despite the open windows. May had brought a delicious early foretaste of summer, and with it, summer revelry from the general public. Parks and pubs were full.

She pulled a face, wrinkling up her nose. “I think I might be done.”

Strike nodded, ignoring his libido pointing out to him yet again how gorgeous she was, all the little expressions she made. He was getting used to firmly squashing his subconscious. What was it about the summer that made his errant thoughts harder to control? The fresh breeze that wafted the delicate scent of her floral perfume through the office to him, the lighter blouses she wore, the absence of the thick winter tights - all little things in themselves, but put together—

“Yeah, it is getting a bit raucous in here.” A group of young men who had clearly spent the afternoon in the sun rather than their offices had taken up residence at the bar, loud and obnoxious and obviously enjoying the attention they were getting, thinking themselves popular rather than annoying. Strike had been well aware of the slight tension in Robin, her refusal to even look in their direction as they cast increasingly overt and lingering glances her way despite her burly partner’s large and intimidating presence. He’d caught the eye of one or two of them with a steely stare and they’d briefly backed down, looking away, but their bonhomie was buoyed up by alcohol and pack mentality; he could see Robin wasn’t comfortable in their presence.

She nodded now, glad that he understood without her having to say, as he always did. She wasn’t afraid, not with Strike here. In fact she wasn’t really afraid at all, but she didn’t like the looks she was getting, looks that slid from her eyes down across her sheer work blouse. Didn’t like the feeling that she was somehow part of the scenery, part of their evening’s entertainment. She’d switched seats when she came back from the ladies, sitting with her back to them, and she was aware of her partner keeping half an eye on the situation, but suddenly all she wanted was to be back in her cosy flat with a cup of tea and the evening television.

 _You’re getting old and boring,_ she told herself with a wry smile.

“Let’s go, then,” she said decisively, and Strike nodded and drained the last of his pint as Robin reached for her little chiffon scarf and coat, resting over the back of the chair she’d sat on earlier.

She was just starting to unfold the scarf to arrange it round her neck when Strike’s phone, sat on the pub table between them, pinged with an incoming text. He set his glass down and picked it up, swiping to open it as Robin wrapped her scarf and reached for her coat.

A cheeky grin ghosted across his face as he read the text. Robin stood and slid her arms into her coat, tugging it straight while Strike tapped out a swift reply. She pulled her gaze away from his huge hands, as she so often had to do these days. She remembered thinking those hands big and clumsy when she’d first got to know him and would watch him hold a pint or light a cigarette. Next to Matthew’s lean hands and long fingers, Strike’s hands had seemed almost paw-like in comparison. Now she often found herself wondering what they might feel like if he—

Strike stood, shoving his phone into his pocket and reaching for his own coat, and Robin hurriedly dragged her wayward mind back under control. Something about his demeanour had spiked her interest, though, and before she could stop herself she was asking, “Anything important?”

Strike shrugged his coat on. “Nothing work-related.”

“Oh.” Burning with curiosity now, she couldn’t ask any more without prying. She turned away, fussing with her scarf, trying to get it to sit comfortably inside her collar.

“Got plans for the weekend?” he asked her. He picked up their empty glasses and moved across to set them on the bar, stepping around the quaffing, loud-voiced blokes and rolling his eyes a little as he turned back.

Robin shrugged, doing up buttons. “Usual, I guess. Laundry, food shopping. Might even go so far as to change the bedclothes.”

He grinned at her. “Steady on, only so much excitement you need in one weekend.”

Robin laughed lightly. “How about you?”

Only she would have noticed the infinitesimal pause as Strike weighed up what to say.

“Looks like I’m out tomorrow night,” he replied.

“Looks like?” They were moving towards the door now, Strike reaching to pull it open and hold it for her to precede him out onto the bustling pavement.

He patted the pocket where he’d stashed his phone. “That was, er, the waitress from the Crap Dad cafe.”

Strike was spending his Fridays watching a father who had a day’s access to his young children each week. The mother suspected from things the children had said that he was just dumping them in a soft play area while he drank coffee and spent the day on his phone, and had asked Strike and Ellacott to find out what he was doing. So far, that was all he did, spending hours at a time in the venue. Strike regularly complained how bored he was, sat in the cafe opposite, and had taken to bringing some of his old uni texts with him to reread in a fit of self-improvement and to give him a legitimate reason to be sat in a cafe all day every Friday.

He held the door for Robin and then stepped out onto the street after her. Why did it feel weird to tell her about this? They were colleagues and friends.

“Yeah, we’ve been discussing my books,” he explained as they set off towards the Tube station, evening sun slanting across the street and glinting off windows and passing cars. “And then this afternoon before she went off shift, she, er, left a serviette on my table with her phone number on it.” He couldn’t quite hide the pleased note in his voice.

 _Of course she did._ Robin snorted, ignoring the pang of something that definitely wasn’t jealousy. “So you texted her?”

His slightly smug tone stung. “Rude not to.” He grinned. “That was her just now, suggesting a drink tomorrow night.”

“Oh.” Robin cursed herself for the way her voice sounded so small. They rounded the corner at the end of the street. The Tube station was in view now. She cleared her throat. “You going anywhere nice?”

“Apparently Irina’s mate plays in a band, so we’re going to see them.”

Irina. Robin was immediately imagining someone younger, glamorous, with a slight accent. She was probably working in the cafe to see her through university or fund a budding arthouse theatre career or something. A woman who clearly spent her weekends seeing new bands, dating men she’d given her number to, maybe strolling round bohemian markets. Not cleaning out the fridge, which Robin had been vaguely thinking needed doing this weekend.

They’d reached the Tube. “Well, this is me. Have a good weekend.”

He was still grinning, inordinately cheerful now, making her feel out of sorts. “You too. Enjoy the shopping and laundry!” With a cheerful wave, he turned away, pulling his cigarettes and lighter from his pocket. Robin set off down the steps into the Tube.


	2. Ocean Ripple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Robin isn’t the least bit jealous.

_Right,_ Robin thought to herself. _A nice teal blue colour, that’s the way to go._

She was stood in the small branch of B&Q with her basket full of a paint tray and roller, a can of white gloss and a selection of brushes, a few sheets of fine sandpaper and a roll of masking tape. If she got a move on, she could get her bedroom painted in a weekend. She wasn’t going to get anything else done, though.

She peered at the coloured paint squares on the wall above the shelf. She knew she should probably buy a tester pot and do a square at home, but she only had two days and she didn’t want to have to trek back here. There was only one colour that was anywhere near right anyway, so it would have to do.

She grabbed a tin and set off for the checkouts.

The plan to paint her bedroom had been hatched while she lay in bed the previous evening, unable to sleep as she normally did so easily on a Friday night, turning Strike’s words over in her head and chastising herself for it. “Enjoy your shopping and laundry,” he’d said, like she was so boring and predictable. And she was. That was all she did, every weekend, unless they were working a case. The occasional shopping trip with Ilsa or the cinema with Vanessa, but otherwise her weekends were always the same.

And in the meantime, Strike had a date. As usual, some woman had made her interest known, and there he was with her phone number and a date lined up. Not that this was anything to do with Robin, wasn’t even her business to be cross about. But cross she was all the same, that it was so much easier for men, that he could just accept a random approach from a stranger and agree to meet up without fear for his own safety. That was all that was irritating her.

_Stop thinking about it._

Determined to do something outside of her usual routine, she’d hit upon the plan to decorate her room while staring at the ceiling last night. If she had time on Sunday afternoon, she might even pop to a department store and treat herself to a new set of curtains to adorn her freshly-painted boudoir.

Laden down with heavy paint pots and a light but awkwardly-shaped bag stuffed with tray, roller and brushes, Robin began the trek back to her flat. It was promising to be a warm weekend, sweat breaking out between her shoulder blades as she lugged her purchases along. At least she could throw all the windows open and the paint would dry fast.

Back in her flat, she dumped her things and went to stand in her bedroom. The walls were currently a mundane shade of off white, somewhere on the grey side of magnolia. Their insipidness had never bothered her before, but it was time for a change.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, a combination of nerves and excitement. It was a big task, but she was looking forward to the results.

 _Right_. Robin put the kettle on, and changed into her oldest clothes, a pair of ancient jogging bottoms and a T shirt that had been washed too many times and was becoming threadbare. She shoved her TV right back into the corner of her little living area, pushed the sofa close to it and began to haul furniture out of her bedroom. The little room was crowded with a chest of drawers and a dressing table, as well as the bed and bedside table. Luckily her wardrobe was built in, a cupboard that took up the other half of the space beyond her bedroom that wasn’t taken up by the little bathroom off her living room. She briefly contemplated emptying it and painting in there, too, but no one was ever going to see, and she was already becoming concerned about the time - it was almost lunchtime and she hadn’t painted a thing yet.

The chest of drawers was heavy, but she moved first one side and then the other, slowly walking it out into the living area. The dressing table was lighter but awkward, and she barked her shin when it stuck in the doorway and suddenly released itself, lurching into her. Swearing viciously, she hauled it into position with the extra strength suddenly afforded her by pain and anger, and finally stood, panting and glaring at it.

She hurried back to her room, flung the window open wide, grabbed a mask and the sandpaper and began to sand all the woodwork she could see. Anxiety rose in her a little as she realised she had all the skirting boards, two doors and their surrounds and all around the window to do. What had seemed like a small job, just painting a few walls, was anything but. Still, she had plenty of time. Well, quite a bit of time.

By the time she had finished sanding, her back and arms were aching and she was hungry. It had been hours since breakfast, and was well gone lunchtime now. She whisked around with the hoover, picking up all the sawdust and scrubbing at the normally neglected places where her furniture sat, and then forced herself to have a break. She needed to literally let the dust settle.

She reboiled the kettle and finally made herself a mug of tea, and assembled a sandwich. She ate it perched on her sofa, practically wedged against the TV with her bedroom furniture crammed behind it, and tried not to think about the current state of her normally pristine flat. _It always looks worse before it looks better._

She couldn’t wait to get back to work. She dumped her plate in the sink, made herself a strong coffee to follow the tea, to give her extra energy, and went to open the gloss paint.

It was a long, but fun, afternoon. The radio burbled away, and Robin sang along at first, and later tuned to another station to listen to a radio play and then a quiz, as she worked her way methodically around her room with smooth strokes of the brush. Glossing had always been her job when she and Matthew decorated, while he tackled the roller and paint tray. She knew what she was doing, enjoyed the precision of it.

Afternoon began to fade into evening. Robin stood in the slanting sunlight, painting carefully around her window, trying not to get any paint on her neatly masked edges. Her mind, drifting across a range of topics as she worked, kept insisting suddenly on returning to her business partner.

He’d be getting ready for his date now. She wondered what he would wear, and supposed it would depend on the club. His navy suit? Or would he choose his dark jeans and a white T-shirt? No, she decided he’d think that a little casual. Probably the suit, then, with his brown brogues.

She stuck her tongue out a little, concentrating hard as she carefully painted into a top corner, standing on tiptoe and trying to get decent, even coverage without the paint collecting and dripping.

Which shirt, though? She loved his eyes in the blue one, but the crisp white one contrasted so well with his stubble. He was likely going to shave, though, and he’d need cufflinks if he wore the white one. Would that be too dressy?

She paused, her arm in the air. Why was she even thinking about this? It didn’t matter to her what he wore or where he went. None of her business.

Her arm was aching. She declared herself a break. She needed to eat.

She balanced the brush on the top of the gloss tin and squeezed back around all her furniture to her kitchenette. She boiled the kettle again and made herself a very quick plateful of pasta and cheese, adding some sliced tomato and a scattering of the remnants of the ham from the packet. She really would have to go shopping soon. But she was on a roll, and wanted to get at least the glossing finished tonight. She only had the cupboard door to do now and that last bit of skirting from below the window to the far corner.

He had probably set off now, was on his way to the Tube. Strolling along in the evening sun in that crisp suit and his white shirt, smoking as he went.

 _Stop it!_ Robin rolled her eyes at herself and shook her head.

She added her plate to the sink and went back to her bedroom. She switched the radio back over to the music station and picked up her brush with an air of determination. She was on the home straight, and forced herself to sing along with the radio as she worked and not think about Strike, in a club, with a beautiful woman on his arm and drinks flowing, a band playing.

It was late by the time she finished, and the room was smelling strongly of gloss now. Robin was glad of her second floor location meaning she could safely leave all the windows open. There was nowhere else to sleep, but it had been a breezy day as well as warm, and a steady flow of air wafting through from the windows open in her living area and kitchenette.

And tomorrow she could start the real transformation, turning her room a beautiful, delicate shade of teal. Excitement fizzed in her veins. She wrapped her brush, shoved the lid back on the paint tin, showered quickly and tumbled into bed, exhausted. She could hardly keep her eyes open.

She lay drifting, sleepy, imagining what accessories she might buy for her beautiful new boudoir and refusing to let her treacherous mind wonder if Strike was going to make it back to his own flat tonight.


	3. Vert de Terre

It was mid afternoon on Sunday when Robin finally gave up.

Her body hurt, and her head spun from the paint fumes despite the gentle breeze wafting through her flat. Her hands were covered in smears of paint even though she had bought and worn disposable gloves. There was a stripe of green across her cheek, and worse, a streak of white gloss she’d discovered in her hair. Her arms throbbed, her back ached.

The furniture she had piled into her cramped living room added to her woes; she was thoroughly fed up with having to squeeze around things every time she wanted to get to her kitchenette or bathroom. She’d barked her shins on the edge of her chest of drawers several times, and her swearing vocabulary had got richer as her exhaustion increased.

The can of emulsion was almost empty, and the walls of her bedroom remained resolutely streaky, and a hideous shade of slightly olive green that bore no resemblance to the colour of the label on the tin.

She hated it.

Finally at about three o’clock, it all became too much. She spotted a splodge of the hideous green on the carpet by the wall, realised she had stepped in it and ruined her sock, and burst into tears, furious with herself even as she cried for being such a _girl_ about it all. She sat on the edge of her bed and sniffled into a handful of tissues for a few minutes, trying not to think about the disaster that was her flat now.

The roller lay rejected in the almost-empty tray. Bits of kitchen roll she’d used to wipe the edge of the can or the handle of her little brush lay about. The old sheet she was using to protect the carpet was splattered. There wasn’t enough paint left in the can for another coat for the whole room; she’d done two full coats already, and even as the wall where she’d started dried, she could see it was still streaky. And the colour... She couldn’t work out what it reminded her of, but it was nothing like the beautiful, delicate blue-green she’d had in her mind’s eye.

She called herself a time out. Stripping off her painty sock, she left it by the smear on the carpet and padded out of the room, still sniffing. She squeezed her way around to the kitchenette and put the kettle on, and tried to think what she was going to do.

The hideous green would have to go. It was awful, nothing like the beautiful, pastel teal she had envisaged. So the room would need to be repainted. But her weekend was almost over, and the hardware store would be closing at four o’clock anyway. They had a long week at work ahead with a full schedule. She was going to have to leave the redecoration project until next weekend now, and needed to decide whether to lug all her furniture back into her room, or live like this for a week.

She sighed as she surveyed the room. She could still sit on her little sofa and watch the television, though it was a bit close now. And she could get around if she didn’t mind squeezing.

The kettle came to the boil, and she turned to pour hot water into her mug. She poked listlessly at the tea bag.

She was too exhausted to move furniture today anyway. She still had to wash all her brushes, clean the roller and then try to get the paint off her hands and out of her hair, and she hadn’t actually done her weekend chores yet, she had been so absorbed in decorating. She needed to wash and hang up her work clothes, and now she’d have to make do with a ready meal from the convenience store on the corner for dinner and do her grocery shopping after work tomorrow.

She dropped her tea bag into the bin, added milk and carried her mug back through to her bedroom. It still stank of paint, and every time she walked in the door she tried to convince herself that the colour was okay, really.

It wasn’t. It was still hideous, and she still couldn’t quite work out where she’d seen it before, but she knew she didn’t like it. She vaguely considered taking pictures of it and going back to B&Q to complain, but she wasn’t normally one for making a fuss, and it was partly her own fault in any case for not doing a tester square.

She sat on her bed, cradling her mug of tea, and sighed, feeling defeated and miserable. She looked at the paint on the carpet, but she knew better than to rub at it. She’d have to let it dry and see if she couldn’t scrape it off somehow.

What a mess. She wished she’d never started this whole ridiculous project, which she had only even begun so that she might feel her weekend was useful and productive and interesting, rather than samey. It was hard to reconcile how she felt now with her enthusiasm of yesterday and this morning, when she’d hurried through a quick breakfast, eager to get working on the colour change for the walls, the main event of her redecoration project. She’d painted eagerly at first, sliding the roller in long sweeps, using a little brush to neaten the edges around skirting boards and window edges and the door, surrounded by the smell of emulsion, at that point still enthusiastic about the transformation she was affecting. She’d imagined herself breezing into the office on Monday and asking Strike about his date even as she was busily painting and preparing her own story.

“Me? Oh, I redecorated my bedroom,” she’d say airily, as if this was something she often did on a whim. “Yeah, I just fancied a change.”

_Idiot_. Robin slurped her tea, gazed at her horrid streaky walls, and sighed.


	4. Moonlight Bay

Strike was a little late on Monday morning, having managed to oversleep and therefore not had time to shave. He carried his coffee into the office, and grinned at Robin already sat at her desk.

“Morning,” he said, and she smiled back at him.

“Morning.”

“Good weekend?” he asked cheerfully, and only he would have noticed the way she stiffened slightly.

“Fine,” she said, a little shortly. “Usual.”

She didn’t ask him about his weekend, and Strike wasn’t keen to elaborate, so he just nodded and proceeded through to his own office, wondering what had brought about her sudden change in demeanour. It wasn’t like her to judge him for being late, though he supposed that usually when he was late he had a good excuse, often a late night tailing a mark. He was well aware that Robin just quietly manned the office and let him sleep on such occasions. She certainly wasn’t prone to greeting him so stiffly.

He set his coffee mug down on his desk, and paused and glanced back towards the door.

Nothing much he could do about it now. He shrugged and moved round to his chair.

In her half of the office, Robin was giving herself a good talking to, and trying very hard not to listen out for the sound of movement overhead. Why else would Strike be late and unshaven? Presumably the date had gone so well, he’d been...busy all day yesterday, a thought she despised herself for even allowing headroom. Suddenly she was imagining he’d spent his Sunday in bed with the glamorous Irina, who was no doubt as tall and beautiful as all the other women who came and went in Strike’s life. Her traitorous imagination eagerly supplied her with an image of him, naked and hirsute, tangled together in the sheets—

She shook her head and resolved to concentrate on work.

An hour later, Strike appeared at the door of his office and moved to dump his empty mug in the sink.

“I’m off for that appointment at the records office in Camden,” he said. He eyed Robin cautiously, wondering if her mood had thawed any, and his gaze caught on a few white strands in her hair. He idly wondered what it was. Too bright white to be an early hint of grey. Not enough of it to be some kind of highlight. It almost looked like paint.

Robin nodded briskly. “I might not be here when you get back, Redhead has a lunchtime spin class.” She gave him an appraising look. “Are you in a hurry? Got a card here for you to sign.”

Strike raised his eyebrows, intrigued, moving towards her as she slid the card next to her across her desk towards him, turning it to face him. “What’s this?”

Robin shrugged a little. “Clark, the guy from last year who had us follow his fiancée and dig into her background for the pre-nup? They’re getting married next weekend. I thought we should send a card.”

“Ah, yes, such a romantic story that was,” Strike said drily as he scrawled his signature across the card below Robin’s neat writing. “I’ll bet we’ve not seen the last of him.”

“Well, precisely,” Robin said, picking up the card and starting to slide it into the envelope. “Doesn’t hurt to keep thoughts of us in his mind.” There was a tiny crescent of green around the edge of her fingernail that also looked like it could be paint. Strike vaguely wondered if she had taken up some kind of evening class.

“I’ll drop that in the post on the way, if you like?” he offered, seeing that the envelope was already neatly addressed and stamped.

“Great,” Robin replied, sticking the flap down and passing the envelope to him. “Another little job off the to do list.”

Strike slid the card into the huge pocket of his coat and pulled it on. “I’ll see you later?”

Robin nodded, a little distracted, he thought.

“Might do. I’m in and out this afternoon, might go straight from the gym to the university library, see if I can get access to that paper to read. Don’t think I’ll be allowed to bring it away, but I might be able to make a photocopy.”

Strike was almost out the door. He threw her a smile back over his shoulder. “See you when I see you, then.”

“Yep.” Robin was already back at her monitor, typing away briskly.

Strike pondered as he descended the stairs. She didn’t seem in the greatest of moods today. They knew each other pretty well, and he could read the tension in her.

Maybe just a bad night’s sleep. He stepped out onto the street and pulled his cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one and strolled away up the street, enjoying the warm breeze.


	5. Stepping Stone

“And how’s Robin?” Nick smiled at Strike across their second pints. The Herberts were very fond of Robin, had enjoyed having her as their house guest for a couple of weeks after Robin first left her husband.

Strike hesitated for a moment, pausing to take a sip of his beer. How was Robin?

She’d been better today, less tense. Things had been normal between them right up to the moment at five o’clock as Robin was pulling on her coat when he’d casually mentioned that he was going out for a drink tonight, at which point he’d sensed a slight stiffness in her demeanour again. She’d shown no inclination to continue their polite small talk, asking him neither where he was going nor who with, merely diverting the subject back to work. His attempts to ask her about her own evening plans had been rebuffed with a throwaway “usual” and a wave of her hand as she left.

He’d paused too long. Nick was eyeing him curiously.

Strike shrugged. “She’s okay.”

“But?” his old friend prompted.

Strike set his pint back down with a sigh. There was always an element of probing, these days. Initially it had been Ilsa who had tended to hint, to suggest, to throw around comments like “Didn’t Robin look lovely today?” and “Is Robin not dating anyone?”. Nick hadn’t tended to join in, knowing full well that Strike didn’t take kindly to anyone meddling in his personal life. But since his partner had lived with the Herberts, Nick had been fully on board with the idea too, pouncing on any hint that Strike might be starting to see Robin as anything other than a work colleague. Strike preferred not to talk about her at all when they met up for the evening.

He shrugged again. “She’s a bit out of sorts this week.”

“Why?” Nick’s brows knit together, and Strike rolled his eyes.

“How would I know?”

“Well, have you tried asking her?”

Strike snorted. “And here’s you supposed to be the experienced married man. What am I meant to say, “You’re being grumpy; what’s up?” I can’t imagine that going over well with Ilsa.”

Nick grinned. “There are ways of asking that are a lot better than that. Try not telling her she’s being grumpy, for a start.” He paused, and then chuckled. “Are you thinking it’s that time of the month, is that why you’re not asking? It’s one I learned very early on not to ask Ilsa.”

Strike shook his head. “Even I know better than to ask that one. And anyway, it’s only the fifteenth.”

Nick said nothing, merely raising a highly sceptical eyebrow.

“What?”

“Just how much time do you guys spend together, that you know that?”

Strike shrugged. “I’m a detective. Doesn’t take much analysing to work out when there’s tampon wrappers in the bin in the loo and no chocolate left in the cupboard.”

“And I suppose you’ve carefully taken note and you make sure there’s plenty of chocolate at the right time?”

Strike shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “If it’s my turn to go to the shop. You going to the football this weekend?”

Nick laughed. “Pathetic attempt to change the subject,” he said cheerfully. “If you know her well enough to know her menstrual cycle, you know her well enough to ask what’s troubling her.”

Strike sighed. “I guess. But it’s not my business, really, is it?”

Nick shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he said fondly.

“Why?”

“All this effort to hold her at arm’s length is fooling no one. If you truly are only friends, just ask her.”

Strike bristled. “Maybe I will.”

“There you go, then.” Nick paused and took a swig of his own pint. “And no, I’m not going to the football this weekend. I’m working both days, so I’ve got Friday and Monday off instead, utterly useless days to be off work.”

Strike nodded, relieved that Nick was finally letting the subject go. “I’m hoping to be off this weekend, unless I need to do some tailing. Seems adulterers prefer weekends.”

Nick laughed. “You’d think midweek would be easier for that sort of thing.”

“Depends how brazen they’re being, I guess.” Strike grinned, and the conversation moved on.


	6. Opal Silk

“Hey, Rob, it’s me.”

“Vanessa, hi.” Robin sat back in her chair with a smile. She didn’t normally take personal calls at work, determined to maintain her professionalism, but it was lunchtime and she’d just made a fresh round of tea. She kicked off her shoes, picked up her mug and moved to sit on the faux leather sofa. “How are you?”

“Yeah, good thanks. Popped out for a sandwich. Just checking you’re on for Zumba later?”

Robin dropped onto the comfy cushion, ignoring its slight protest. At least it never made the obscene noises for her that it did for Strike. “Oh, Van, I might have to skip tonight.”

“Aw, Rob, why? Tell him you can’t work Wednesdays!”

Robin laughed a little. “It’s not that. I need to get to B&Q tonight.”

“Why on earth would you need to do that?”

“Paint,” Robin replied gloomily.

Her friend’s chuckle echoed down the line. “Sounds like such a cheerful prospect.”

“Yeah, I messed up.”

“How come?”

Robin sighed and took a swig of tea. “Ugh, just— I tried to redecorate my bedroom at the weekend and it was a disaster. I hate it.”

Her friend’s voice was full of sympathy. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, the glossing went okay. I guess I’m quite proud of that,” Robin replied. “The problem is the actual paint on the walls. It’s crap, really streaky, and I hate the colour.”

“What colour is it? Or rather, what colour were you aiming for?”

“Oh, Van, I had such a clear idea in my head of what I wanted it to look like, and it’s horrible. I wanted a lovely light shade of aqua or teal green, I knew the exact colour I wanted. But this is hideous, it’s more like a kind of olive green. It’s taken me days to work out what it reminds me of, but I realised last night. It’s like that awful colour they paint hospital walls.”

“Oh, no, Rob, that sounds terrible.”

“Yeah. And it took me all weekend, so I had to do my grocery shopping on Monday night and my laundry last night. I need to clean, but my furniture is everywhere. It’s so depressing.” Robin sighed. “So yeah, I need to get on and get more paint, and I can’t go tomorrow night because Redhead has an evening class.”

“Are you going to paint again this weekend, then?”

“Yeah, I’ll have to. I can’t keep living in uproar.”

“Ah, that sucks. I’d offer to help, but I’m away this weekend with my sister, it’s been booked ages.”

Robin smiled into the phone. “Bless, you, Van, don’t worry. I can manage. I just want it over and done with now.”

“I bet. Oh, Rob, come to Zumba. It’ll do you good. You can get the paint Friday night.”

It was on the tip of Robin’s tongue to remind Vanessa that Friday night was Tottenham night when she remembered Irina. Why on earth would Strike want to go to the pub with his colleague when he had a new girlfriend to spend the evening with?

She sighed again. “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, I’ll see you later.”

“Great!” Vanessa sounded delighted. “See you tonight. Gotta run, lunch break over.”

Robin smiled. “I’ll see you tonight.”

She hung up and sighed a little, and then gulped down the rest of her tea. Vanessa was right, tonight would cheer her up. She loved the routine of Zumba, working off the week’s stresses and then sitting gossiping over smoothies in the cafe afterwards. She could buy paint any time.

She pulled herself off the sofa. It was her turn to do the lunch run.

“Just popping out for sandwiches,” she called, and heard Strike’s answering rumble from the other room. She slid her feet back into her shoes, grabbed her bag from her desk and set off down the metal staircase.

In his office, Strike smoked and gazed unseeing at the opposite wall. He hadn’t been listening as such, but Robin hadn’t bothered to modulate her voice, and the door between their offices was always open.

So that was what had been wrong with his partner this week. He’d known there was something on her mind. It also explained the paint in her hair and on her fingernails.

Some little detail was snagging with him. He searched his capacious memory, and suddenly lit upon it. That moment in A&E six months ago when they were waiting to speak to a mark, sat in a quiet corridor while the doctors did their thing. They both had a dislike of hospitals for their own reasons; conversation had been somewhat stilted, and they’d fallen to discussing the decor. Robin had commented then how she hated the colour of hospital walls, and how she was sure they could come up with something better.

“Remember curry night last month, that scarf Ilsa had on?” she’d said. “The teal-coloured chiffon one with the flowers. That’s the colour they should use. Beautiful and calming. I’d love to paint a room that colour.”

Strike picked up his mobile and swiped through his contacts, pressed the one he wanted, waited while it rang.

“Ilsa? It’s me. Can you meet me in your lunch break tomorrow? At Bromborough.” He paused. “Yes, the paint place. And bring your teal scarf, the one with the flowers.”

He paused again, listening, grinning at nothing. “You’ll find out why. Thanks, Ils, I’ll see you tomorrow. And don’t forget the scarf!”


	7. Frosted Glade

“Cormoran Strike, what on earth are you up to?”

Strike grinned and accepted a kiss on the cheek from his old friend.

“And make it fast,” Ilsa added. “This is a trek from work, I haven’t got long.”

Strike gave her a brief explanation as they stood in the queue, waiting to be served.

“So you’re buying Robin a can of paint?”

He shrugged. “That’s about the size of it. You got the scarf?”

Ilsa pulled the scrap of chiffon from her handbag. “What’s the significance of this?”

“She once told me she’d love to paint a room that colour.” Strike could feel his cheeks heating up under Ilsa’s scrutiny.

“And you remembered that?”

He waved a dismissive hand. “I remember everything.”

“Can I help you?” They had reached the front of the queue, and the young man with spiky blond hair was waiting expectantly.

“I’d like a can of paint of a specific colour,” Strike said.

The young man smiled. “Then you’ve come to the right place. We can mix any shade you want. Have you got the colour?”

Ilsa held up the scarf. “But which bit?” The scarf was several shades of pastel blue-green, with little flowers scattered across it.

“That one,” Strike said at once, pointing.

Ilsa looked at him sideways. “And you know that because...?”

“That’s a paler version of the notebook she takes with her to interviews.”

Ilsa shook her head very slightly, and handed the scarf over. “That one.”

“And what finish?” The young man asked. Seeing Strike’s blank look, he elaborated. “Is it for woodwork? Walls? Which room?”

“Bedroom walls,” Strike said.

“Silk finish,” Ilsa added. “Reflects more light,” she said in answer to Strike’s querying look.

“How much?”

“Two and a half litres should do it,” Ilsa replied.

The young man nodded. “It won’t take long,” he said.

“Thank you.” Ilsa smiled, and they moved away to idly peruse the rows of ready-mixed cans, rollers and brushes and other decorating necessities.

“God, I’m glad I brought you,” Strike said. “I didn’t know there would be so many questions.”

Ilsa grinned. “Nick and I have decorated a lot of rooms over the years,” she replied. “You chose well coming here. They’re not cheap, but it’s good quality. Never scrimp on the price of paint, you’ll pay for it in time and having to buy more for extra coats. You’ll get a good two out of that can.”

Strike stared at her. “Me?”

Ilsa raised her eyebrows. “You were just going to give her the can?”

“Well, I can hardly break into her flat and paint her bedroom, can I? That would be...weird.”

“You’re the one who always insists the two of you are just friends. I’d do it for a friend. I’d do it for Robin.”

“But—”

“And she keeps a spare key to her flat in her desk, she told me once when we were sorting a key to ours for her when she lived with us.”

Strike stared at his old friend helplessly. “I can’t just...” He trailed off.

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly. “Imagine what a lovely surprise it’ll be.”

“But— But where will Robin be while I’m doing it?”

“It won’t take long if she’s done all the prepping and glossing, those are the fiddly bits. Just send her out on a job and sneak round there. Quick coat, break for lunch, another quick coat. Soon dry in this weather.”

Strike couldn’t believe he was seriously considering Ilsa’s suggestion. To go to Robin’s flat when she wasn’t there...

Imagine her delight, though, if he could save her the effort as well as get her the perfect colour. He’d heard in her voice as she chatted to Vanessa how little enthusiasm she had for another weekend of painting.

Ilsa nodded at his silence. “That’s settled, then. Come on, you’ll need a tray and a roller and a little brush.”

“Ils—”

“Paint’s ready,” called the assistant.

“Blimey, that was quick.” Strike pulled his wallet from his pocket and moved to the till, while Ilsa quickly selected a roller set and a brush and hurried to join him. Within five minutes they were back out on the street, Ilsa tucking her scarf back into her handbag and Strike holding the can of paint and a bag of accessories.

She grinned up at him. “Good luck,” she said, a cheeky twinkle in her eye. “Robin will love it.”

He knew his cheeks were pink again. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” he muttered.

Ilsa snorted. “I think you’ll find this was your idea.”

“I was only going to give her the can.”

“And that’s not nearly romantic enough.”

“It’s not supposed to be romantic!”

“Bollocks is it. Just get round there and be her knight in shining armour. Knight with shining paint can.” Ilsa laughed.

Strike was fervently wishing that he hadn’t involved her. He couldn’t really not do the painting himself now. “Ilsa—”

“I’m going to be late.” And with another kiss on his cheek and a swift hug, she was gone, her heels clicking away up the pavement towards the Tube.

Strike watched her go and sighed a little, and turned and headed towards the bus stop.

...

When Robin arrived back from a fruitless and frustrating visit to the local land records office, Strike appeared almost immediately from his office to put the kettle on.

“Any luck?” he asked her, grabbing two mugs and reaching for the tea bags.

“No,” she grumbled. “I think they must have bought the property under a different name or maybe through a holding company. I’ll search online again.”

Strike nodded. “Good plan.” He watched the kettle, waiting for it to boil.

“Um, any chance you could cover Crap Dad tomorrow?” His voice was studiously casual.

“Er, yeah, sure,” Robin replied, mentally running through what she had been planning. Redhead would have to go unwatched to the gym. Crap Dad was an all-day job.

“I just need a day out of the office,” Strike said, still not looking at her. “It’s, er, personal.”

Robin stared at his back. She didn’t think he had ever, in all the years they’d worked together, taken a personal day.

“Everything all right?”

“Fine,” he replied lightly, pouring hot water into their mugs. “Just need to run some errands, and it might take me all day.”

Robin swallowed. He’d never pried into her personal days, allowing her time off to move house and get her divorce finalised without ever questioning why she needed it or asking for justification. She had to do him the same courtesy.

“No worries,” she said. “I might as well go straight there in the morning.”

“Great, thanks,” Strike replied. “I’ll leave the office answer phone on to field calls.”

Tea assembled, he passed her her mug without quite meeting her eye.

“Thanks,” Robin said. She turned to set the mug on her desk, and by the time she turned back, he was halfway through to his own office.


	8. Mineral Mist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the details of Strike’s date are finally revealed.

By the time Robin arrived at the cafe to start her day of watching the soft play centre opposite, she had worked herself into quite a self-righteous huff. She knew full well that if a member of Strike’s family were ill or he had an appointment for his leg - the only time off work she’d ever known him to take - he would have just told her. So this was a different kind of personal day. Her suspicions were only confirmed by the absence of a tall, glamorous waitress. The place was staffed by a middle-aged lady and a young lad who barely looked older than sixteen, who was clearly learning the ropes.

So. Here she was, stuck in this boring cafe all day, her own cases put on hold so that she could cover for her boss while he went on yet another date.

A full day, no less. Maybe he was taking a long weekend, taking the gorgeous Irina away somewhere.

She ordered a large coffee and a _very_ large slice of cake, and settled herself in the window.

 _Men_. She would never have dreamed of taking time off work to go on a date, she told herself furiously, conveniently forgetting the long weekends she had taken to plan her wedding, the weekend she couldn’t work because it was her and Matthew’s anniversary. No, she was professional to a T, certainly would never dream of asking Strike to cover her cases so she could go on a day-long jolly.

Brooding into her mug, she realised she’d eaten half the enormous hunk of cake without really tasting it, and had missed at least ten minutes of comings and goings at the play centre. She gave herself a mental shake. She needed to concentrate.

...

Strike stood at the door to Robin’s flat, the can of paint and bag of equipment in one hand, the other holding her spare door key that he’d hunted through her desk drawers for this morning. Even that had felt like an intrusion. He’d been stood here five minutes already, hesitating.

He’d seen Robin depart twenty minutes ago from his vantage point in a cafe down the road, and had had no problems letting himself in the main door and climbing the stairs to her floor. But actually entering her flat uninvited seemed a step too far.

 _I’d do it for a friend. I’d do it for Robin._ Ilsa’s words echoed in his head. He took a deep, steadying breath and slid the key into the door. He turned it, and then he was over the threshold and actually in Robin’s flat.

He’d been here once or twice, had the odd coffee, met her to go to curry night together. It had always been neat and organised, another aspect of her personality that drew him to her. Charlotte’s messiness, and apparent ability to live within it and move blithely through it without caring, had set his teeth on edge. Robin’s abode had never not been tidy.

It was somewhat of a shock, then, to see how she was currently living. What was clearly her bedroom furniture was all in the main living/dining area, and she’d obviously carved out a corner for herself against the back of the kitchen counter, the sofa so close to the television that Strike wasn’t sure he’d be able to fit through the gap. A leftover tea mug sat next to the television on its stand.

The whole room smelled vaguely of gloss paint.

Strike squeezed his way around the furniture and hesitated at the door of Robin’s bedroom, wondering if he could possibly be being more intrusive into her personal space.

 _In for a penny._ He stepped into her room, set his purchases down, looked around. The walls were as streaky as she’d said, and had an air of cheap hospital paint about them. He could quite see why Robin hated the colour.

And this was indeed going to be a relatively short job. The room was already empty of everything except the bed (Strike pushed away sudden thoughts of Robin in that very bed, stretched out and relaxed, deeming them inappropriate), and a painty sheet that was clearly being used as a dust cover was scrunched into a corner next to the kitchen roll and a screwdriver for opening paint cans. It was as though she’d left it all ready. Which of course she had - for herself.

But Strike could also see at once that he’d taken on a task that he wasn’t going to be able to manage alone. Even with his height, he couldn’t reach to cut in at the tops of the walls, and the chair that Robin had clearly been using for the purpose was useless to him with his prosthesis. He’d likely end up injuring himself badly trying to step up onto it or down off it repeatedly with nothing to hold onto. With a stepladder he could probably have managed, but Robin clearly didn’t own such a thing.

Not for the first time in recent years, he cursed his disability. But it was useless complaining. He could only work with what he had.

With a sigh, he pulled his mobile from his pocket, thumbed through his contacts.

“Nick! Hi, mate. Hey, you know you said it was your day off...? Yeah. Yeah, I need you over at Robin’s. In old clothes.”

...

Robin was starting to become anxious that she had missed Crap Dad. Since she had been paying attention, she was sure he hadn’t arrived. She hoped he hadn’t gone in while she wasn’t looking.

Eventually, as much from boredom as anything else, she went for a little walk down the street and back and popped into the play area, affecting to be looking for a friend and her children. She was able to scan the cafe area quickly while she asked the staff about her fictitious friend. Crap Dad wasn’t there.

She returned to the cafe opposite and went up to the counter to order herself a sandwich for lunch. A menu stood next to the till, and she picked it up.

As she was choosing, the front door opened behind her, and the middle-aged lady waiting to take Robin’s order looked up and smiled.

“Morning, Irina,” she said. “You all right?”

Robin was unable to stop herself turning to look.

The young woman approaching the counter was as tall and attractive as she had supposed, with long dark hair and skinny jeans, but she was alone. She grinned at her colleague and rounded the counter, lifting an apron down off the peg and pulling it on before moving to the sink to wash her hands.

Desperately trying to rein in her curiosity, Robin forced her attention back to the menu. This, then, was the woman Strike had spent all weekend and Tuesday night with. But where was he now? She studied the list of sandwiches, seeing nothing, knowing her cheeks were pink.

“No loverboy today,” the middle-aged woman told Irina, a note of teasing in her voice. “He hasn’t been in all morning.”

Irina snorted, picking up a dishcloth and beginning to wipe the counter. “I should think not. Probably doesn’t dare show his face.” Her voice was, indeed, slightly accented, pleasantly low.

Robin stared hard at the sandwich list, trying to force the options into her brain, attempting to affect an air of concentration and not look like she was listening at all.

“Oh, dear,” Irina’s colleague said. “Date didn’t go well? Was he sleazy?”

Irina shrugged. “No, he stood me up!”

Robin nearly dropped the menu turning it over to read about jacket potatoes.

“What, just never turned up? What happened?”

Irina shrugged. “Yup, just never showed. And then, get this—” she waved the cloth at her colleague “—he texted me later, two _hours_ after we were supposed to meet, with this stupid story. He said he fell asleep in front of the television and had only just woken up. Some football match, he said. You’d think if he was going to take the trouble to text, he’d invent something more believable. And less insulting.”

Mirth fluttered in Robin’s throat, and she struggled to keep her expression blank. The middle-aged waitress, under no such constraint, roared with laughter. “So what did you say?”

Irina made a dismissive noise. “I didn’t bother. Blocked him and deleted his number. Plenty of guys out there who actually would be interested. Idiot, setting up a date he couldn’t be bothered to show up for.”

She looked straight at Robin. “What can I get you?”

“Er— tuna, please, on white. And a cup of tea,” Robin stammered. Irina truly was gorgeous, with almond-shaped green eyes and that long black hair. Any man would consider Strike quite the idiot for not managing to take up the offer of a date with her, as Irina was presumably well aware.

Irina nodded, writing on a small notepad. “Cucumber in the sandwich?”

“Um, yes, please.”

Her colleague fussed at the till while Irina took the order through to the kitchen. She rang up the meal, processed Robin’s payment and smiled at her. “We’ll bring it over,” she said. “I’m off now, then, Irina,” she called over her shoulder, receiving an answering call from the kitchen.

“Thank you,” Robin replied, and moved to sit back down at her table in the window, a small smile playing around her mouth.


	9. Alpine Peak

“It’s open!” Strike shouted in answer to Nick’s bang on Robin’s door, and soon his friend was just behind him, stood in the bedroom doorway. Strike was halfway along the first wall.

Ilsa had been right about spending money on paint. The can had cost an eye-watering sum, but the paint was gliding on smoothly and looked as though it would barely need a second coat. And although it was a long way off dry, he was pleased with the colour. It was going to be just as he’d imagined, the exact colour of Ilsa’s scarf.

Nick stood and stared at him, and Strike threw him a slightly sheepish grin.

“Thanks,” he said. “I can manage it all except the tops, just need someone who can climb on and off that chair without doing themselves an injury.” He hesitated, looking at his old mate. “You must have known I was doing this? Ilsa did tell you?”

Nick shook his head a little, a smirk ghosting across his face. “I wasn’t sure whether or not to believe her. And she wasn’t sure whether you’d actually go through with it.”

“Hah. She practically made me,” Strike said cheerfully. “And she was right. The gift is as much the time as the paint itself. She won’t have to do it now.” He paused and turned fully to look at his friend. “What?”

“Nothing,” Nick replied, chuckling.

“Well, stop giving me that Ilsa look, then. Shut up and paint.”

Nick grinned. “Yes, boss.” He picked up the small paintbrush and pulled its packaging off, grabbed the chair and dragged it over to the door where Strike had started. He picked up the can, clambered onto the chair and set off painting the edge of the ceiling line, following Strike along the wall.

...

The afternoon was dragging, the cafe boring, and Robin was trying not to look at Irina too much. It was hard to appear engrossed in her book and also keep an eye on the play centre. There was no sign of Crap Dad.

She was relieved when her mobile rang mid-afternoon. Ilsa’s name flashed up on the screen.

“Hi, Ilsa. How are you?”

“Yeah, good, thanks. Finished court early, so I’m just heading back to the office to write up, and then I’m out of here. Yay weekend!”

Robin laughed. “Yeah, I think I’m nearly done too. The guy I’m supposed to be watching hasn’t shown up, and I guess he’s probably not going to now.” She glanced at her watch. “If you were spending the day with your kids, you wouldn’t go to a play centre now, would you? You’d be starting to think about their tea. He must have gone to a park instead.”

“Oh, are you...thinking about going home?” Ilsa sounded nonchalant.

“Yeah, got a few errands to run and then I’ll head back, I think.”

“Ooh, what errands?”

Robin blinked. Odd question. “I need to buy some paint, I’m redecorating my bedroom and I don’t like the colour I picked. I’m going to actually get some testers this time.”

“Ah, if I were you I’d just get home and get the wine open. You can do that tomorrow! Besides, don’t you and Corm usually do the Tottenham on a Friday?”

Robin thought about this. She’d been assuming all week that Strike would be busy with Irina, but clearly he wasn’t. She wondered what he was actually doing today on his personal day, seeing as he clearly wasn’t seeing her. He was probably just in the office working on his other cases. She had a strong suspicion that Irina was right - that Strike had sent Robin to cover the cafe today because he couldn’t face her.

“Yeah, often we do. But we’re both out of the office today so I guess it won’t be happening.”

Ilsa paused. “Okay. Well, I’m about to go down into the Tube, so I guess chat soon?”

“Yeah, we must do another curry night.”

“We must! I’ll synchronise diaries with Nick and send you guys some dates.”

Robin smiled. “Great. Chat soon!”

“Bye.”

Robin put her phone down again and looked at her watch. It was almost four o’clock. Surely Crap Dad wouldn’t turn up now?

Should she wait a little longer? She wrestled with her conscience for a few moments, and then thought, _stuff it._ Clearly the guy had taken his ex-wife’s request on board and actually done something different with his children today. _Good for him._

She shrugged on her coat, picked up her bag, bid Irina and the young trainee a good afternoon and set off for B&Q.

...

“Oggy, that was Ilsa on the phone. She said she thinks Robin’s on her way.”

Strike straightened up from his stooped position rollering as low as he could. His back was starting to complain, but they’d done a good job. The second coat was pretty much finished, and Nick was just wandering about now, touching up edges here and there.

The colour was perfect.

“Right, you’d better go, then,” Strike replied.

“Well, Ilsa said she’s popping to get tester squares on the way home. So we could just get this furniture moved?”

“Good plan.”

Nick went to the kitchen to wash his brush while Strike finished the last section of wall and stood back, satisfied. The paint had gone on beautifully, and two coats had totally covered the olivey green. He could see from back round by the door where it was almost dry again already that the walls had a lovely soft sheen. Nick’s edging was straight and true.

“You done? I’ll wash the roller.” Nick was in a hurry to get gone, Strike could see. He relinquished roller and tray, and tidied up while Nick went to wash them. Within ten minutes they were hauling furniture, and it didn’t take long with two of them. They had to guess where everything went, neither of them having seen Robin’s bedroom before, but given that the chest of drawers had to go on top of the green patch where Robin had spilled some of her colour, that pretty much dictated where everything else would fit.

Forty minutes after Ilsa had rung, Nick was out the door, leaving Strike tidying up last bits and pieces. He found Robin’s hoover in a cupboard by the front door, and quickly whizzed around the newly empty living room. He went back into the bedroom, humming softly to himself, and looked around, satisfied with a job well done.

He had nothing left to do, and was just trying to decide whether or not he should be here when Robin got back, when the question was answered for him by the sound of her key in the front door. He moved to her bedroom door and hesitated, suddenly realising what a shock it would be to her to find her flat not empty, unsure where to stand or what to do. There was every chance she’d be upset to find him in her space uninvited. He was suddenly painfully aware that he’d stepped over a fairly major line.


	10. Elysian Dream

Robin pushed the door open and stepped into the flat, and Strike spoke immediately.

“It’s me, Robin, don’t want to alarm you, sorry—”

She jumped and stared at him, eyes wide.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude...” All his earlier fears about the impropriety of his presence in her personal space rushed back to swamp him.

“What are you doing here?” She didn’t look angry or upset, merely confused.

“Um, painting.” Strike made a helpless gesture behind him, into her bedroom, as her eyes darted about, taking in the lack of furniture in her living room, Strike’s old and now paint-stained jeans. He stepped out of the doorway, and she looked past him into the bedroom and gasped.

“What have you—?” In a few quick strides she was in her bedroom, gazing at the walls, the furniture.

He had not thought this part through, not thought further ahead than getting the job done to surprise her.

“Um, sorry,” he mumbled, back in the doorway. He took a hesitant step into the room. “I overheard you talking to Vanessa, and I remembered you saying ages ago about the colour—”

She turned shining eyes to him, so luminously beautiful that he almost took a step back again.

“How did you know what colour I wanted? How did you _find_ it?”

“Er, you said about Ilsa’s scarf... I had it colour-matched...”

Robin blinked. Tears spilled out of her eyes and onto her cheeks.

“Shit, sorry, Robin, it’s totally inappropriate for me to have been here without you...”

“Shut up,” she whispered, looking all around her again.

“Um, what?”

“I said shut up. I love it.” She spun around, taking it all in, the perfect, perfect colour on the walls, just as she had imagined all last weekend. The way the light reflected off the silk paint, making the space look bigger. The new arrangement of her furniture. It was like a whole new room.

Strike shifted awkwardly. “I didn’t think through the whole letting myself in part— I took your key from your desk—”

She turned back to face him, grinning through her tears. “It’s fine.”

“I didn’t want you to think—” he mumbled.

“I said shut up.” She stepped up to him, seized his face and kissed him hard on the mouth.

Strike shut up.

Robin released him and then flung her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight.

“I love it,” she whispered in his ear, sending goosebumps washing down his arms. The feel of her whole body pressed against his was dizzying. “I love it.”

She pulled back. “And I love you for doing it,” she told him, and kissed him again.

Somehow his hands had crept to her waist, drawing her closer against him. Somehow her arms were still around his neck. And somehow her tongue was in his mouth and they were kissing properly.

Robin tangled her fingers into his hair and kissed and kissed him, trembling in his arms, tears still on her cheeks, and then drew back, crying in earnest now. Bemused, Strike hugged her close, and Robin buried her face in his chest. Unable to resist, he lowered his nose to her hair, breathing her, while she drew shuddering breaths and clung to him.

Quiet settled over them and eventually Robin drew back and wiped her eyes, her gaze returning at once to the walls. Strike dropped his arms away from her, and she turned and looked all around again. She moved across to the wall by the window, reaching out to touch.

“It might not be dry,” Strike warned.

She laughed a little and stilled her hand, consenting just to look, and walked all around the bed and back again.

“It’s so perfect,” she marvelled. “It’s just what I was imagining.”

Strike was breathing a little easier now that she hadn’t been upset that he’d practically broken into her home. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the kiss, and how she’d felt in his arms, and whether that was just a one-off thing or whether—

Robin was looking at him, her cheeks pink.

“Sorry,” she murmured.

“What for?”

She took a slow breath. “Kissing you.” Her neck was flushed too now.

“Um, that’s, er, fine.”

She stepped closer to him again, one eyebrow raised. “Fine?”

It was Strike’s turn to blush. “Well, you know.” He made a helpless gesture. “I— didn’t mind.”

Robin grinned. “So you wouldn’t mind if I did it again?”

His lips twitched into a smile. “No, that would also be fine.”

“Good,” she murmured, and kissed him again.

She was slower this time, gentler, pressing close and inviting him to explore, her tongue licking into his mouth and encouraging him to do the same. They kissed for a minute or two - time had lost all meaning - and then with a little moan Robin wriggled herself against him and Strike abruptly lost all control of his body’s response to her. She couldn’t fail to notice his sudden desperate arousal swelling against her thigh, and her arms slid down around his back, pulling his hips closer.

Strike broke free of the kiss with a gasp. “Robin—”

“Mm?” One hand was back up, curling around his neck now, tugging him down so that her lips could find his skin, sending goosebumps surging down his arms again. Strike groaned and moved his hands to her elbows, trying gently to ease her away but failing because he didn’t really want her to stop.

“Robin—” he managed again.

“Mm?” She was nibbling along his jaw now, sending bolts of lust through him, rocking against him.

“Robin, please... Christ, Robin, stop—”

Strike managed to force himself to draw back, to set her away from him a little. She gazed up at him, her eyes cloudy, her lips swollen from kissing him. “What’s the matter?”

Breathing hard, he tried to force his body under some semblance of control.

“I just— This is so fast. I didn’t do this - your room - so that you’d—” He stumbled to a halt.

Robin was smiling up at him. “I know.”

“I just did it because I wanted to, and you’d had a shitty weekend.”

“I know.”

“So I don’t expect...well, anything in return.”

Robin gave a soft laugh. “I know.”

“So.” Strike dropped his hands away from her, stepped back.

“But what if I want to?”

Strike closed his eyes briefly. He didn’t think he’d ever wanted anything so much in his life, but this wasn’t...

He opened his eyes again and took a shuddering breath.

“I want to too, Robin, believe me.” His voice was deep and rich with arousal. “But I told myself if I ever got lucky enough to have a chance with you, if a miracle ever happened that you felt the same way, I was going to do it right. Not rush.”

“Cormoran, we’re not rushing.” Her blue-grey gaze was earnest. “We’ve— Well, I’ve been waiting for this for ages.”

“Me too,” he agreed at once.

“So there’s no rush.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to do it right, not just tumble into bed with you.”

“Cormoran, you are doing it right. This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me. And you got it so perfectly right.”

Strike sighed. He couldn’t quite believe he was actually refusing to take things any further.

Robin grinned. “Maybe I want to tumble into bed with you.” She stepped forward, and just as he was starting to think he had things under control again, her hands were around his back and her lips were on his jaw and her breath was hot on his skin and desire wrenched through him again.

“Fuck—”

He could so, so easily have just fallen across her bed with her. Every nerve was screaming at him to do so.

“Ellacott—”

Robin dropped her head back and grinned at ceiling, and then stepped away again. “Okay, what do you mean by doing it right?”

“Well, you know. A date first, at least—”

“A date?”

“Yeah, you know. Dinner or something.”

“Right. Come on, then.”

He stared at her, nonplussed. “What?”

“Dinner. Get your coat.”

“Now? But— I’m covered in paint.” Strike waved an am that encompassed his painty jeans and battered trainers.

Robin’s eyes twinkled at him. “It’s okay. The Nag’s Head doesn’t have a strict dress code.”

“The Nag’s...?” Strike was struggling to keep up.

“Pub on the corner. Come on. They do pie and chips on a Friday.”

“Robin—”

“What?” The look she gave him was mixed amusement and exasperation.

“I meant a proper date,” he said weakly. “A dress-up dinner, wine, candlelight.”

She grinned. “You’re perfectly dressed for my local. And they have wine. Candles I admit are unlikely.”

“But—”

“Cormoran.” Her blue eyes bored into his. “I know what you mean. And I don’t care about any of that. I don’t care about being seen in fancy restaurants. I don’t want to eat silly, tiny portions of food that I can’t even finish because my dress is too tight, in a restaurant so posh I have to whisper. I want to eat chips in the pub with cheap wine and real ale just like we always do.”

He gazed at her. “Robin Ellacott, I think you might actually be perfect.”

She grinned. “So, if I buy you dinner to say thank you for my wonderful surprise, can I get in your knickers after?”

He gave a shocked laugh. “Probably.”

“Let’s go, then.”

Bemused again, Strike followed her to the door, watching with pride as she trailed delicate fingertips across the paintwork. “I love it,” she whispered.

“I’m glad.”

Before he knew quite what had happened, Strike had his big coat on over his scruffy jeans, and they were strolling down the road to Robin’s local. And by some miracle, her hand was tucked into his.


	11. Atmosphere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter title is the one that sounds least like a paint colour, but I have actually painted a room this colour!
> 
> Eagle-eyed Tumblr followers may well remember chapter 11 was to be the smut, but a couple of chapters got added, sorry. Ratings change for the next chapter!

Strike felt slightly as though he were in a dream or some kind of weird alternate version of reality as he stood in the pub and watched Robin order and pay for a pint of beer, a small white wine and two plates of pie and chips. She’d waved him away when he’d attempted to get his wallet out, insisting it was her treat. Now she picked up their drinks and made her way to a table by the window, and he followed.

Robin set his pint down opposite her wine and sat; Strike removed his coat and sat opposite her.

“So,” she began, leaning forward over the table, her blue-grey eyes twinkling at him. “I want to hear all about this. How did you do it?”

She was so sexy it took his breath away. Strike struggled to assemble his somewhat hazy thoughts. “It’s not a long story. I knew something was up, you seemed out of sorts. And then I overheard you on the phone to Vanessa. I wasn’t deliberately listening, just—”

“I know.”

“And when you said it was like hospital paint, I remembered that time we talked about it, when we were in hospital waiting to talk to Wheeler Dealer.”

“God, that was ages ago.”

“Yeah, but you said then you’d love to paint a room the colour of Ilsa’s teal scarf.”

Robin stared at him. “I did?”

“Yeah. And you know me, I remember stuff like that.” Strike took a quick swig of his pint. “So I rang Ilsa and got her to meet me at Bromborough and bring the scarf. They can mix any colour you want.”

“Oh, so that’s how—”

“Yeah, and Ilsa assumed I was going to be doing the painting. I was just going to give you the can, but once she’d said that, it seemed mean to make you do the work. I just felt bad letting myself in...”

Robin slid her hand across the table to cover his. “Cormoran it’s fine, honestly. I know what you mean. I do value my own space. And almost anyone else, I might have minded a little bit. But—” She trailed off and made a slightly helpless gesture. “I dunno. Because it’s you, and you’re so respectful of my boundaries, and I know how uncomfortable it made you, and you were so careful not to scare me... I don’t mind. Does that make sense?”

Strike couldn’t think about anything except the feel of her hand on his, her thumb idly stroking the side of his as she spoke. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

She drew her hand away, smiling softly. “I’m going to pop to the loo before the food comes.”

Strike nodded. “I’m going to slip out for a cigarette.”

She gave him a dazzling smile, and stood and headed towards the little corridor at the back of the pub.

Strike pulled his cigarettes from his pocket and went to stand on the street by the window where he could keep an eye on their drinks. He lit his cigarette and took a long, welcome pull. It had been some hours.

 _Christ_.

His head was reeling at the sudden, abrupt shift in their relationship. Not that he hadn’t wanted it. Hadn’t been half hoping, if he were brutally honest with himself, that his gesture would lead her to see him in a different light. He’d hoped it would be a way that he could show her how he felt whilst allowing her to brush it off as a gesture of friendship and leave it at that if she so chose.

And now they were— what?

He sighed. Much as he adored Robin, much as he was deeply attracted to her - in fact probably because of these things - he didn’t want a one-night stand. He didn’t want to have a fling, and then go back to being her boss and her mate while she moved on and found another Matthew, young and fit and whole and able to offer her a nice house and children and—

Robin was coming back from the loo. He gazed at her, unobserved through the window, for a few moments. She was so gorgeous even in leggings and a long shirt and flat shoes, her golden hair swinging, a little smile playing around her mouth. She caught sight of him through the window and grinned, and his heart lurched as it always did. And now he knew what she tasted like, knew what she felt like in his arms.

He was never going to have the willpower to resist if she did only want a one-night thing, madness though that would be.

Strike sighed again, ground his cigarette out under his heel and went back into the pub.

Robin grinned up at him as he sat down. “So then what? After you bought the paint?”

Strike shrugged. “That was only yesterday. I gave you Crap Dad to keep you busy all day, and took your spare key this morning.”

Robin hesitated, a cheeky smile pulling at her mouth.

“I initially thought you’d dumped that job on me so you could go out with Irina.” Seeing Strike’s raised eyebrow, she hurriedly clarified. “Well, you did say it was personal! And then—” she was grinning now “—Irina turned up for work, and after hearing her describe your date to her colleague, I thought you must be avoiding her.”

She giggled as Strike flushed and dropped his gaze to his pint, picking it up and burying his face in it for a large swig.

“Did you really sleep through a date?”

Strike shrugged. “Yup. After you and I went our separate ways early on Friday night, I stayed up late going over the McCaffery file again. And then I had loads of errands to run on Saturday morning, I was knackered. And yeah. Arsenal were the late kickoff and I sat down with a beer to watch, and I don’t know. Next thing I knew, it was nine o’clock and I was so stiff from sleeping in my chair, I just couldn’t face going out again.”

He sighed. “I sent her an apology, but I don’t think she believed me.”

Robin grinned. “She didn’t, and you’re blocked.”

“Yeah, I figured. I haven’t tried again.”

“Well, then, I guess you’d better let me take Crap Dad from now on. Though he didn’t actually turn up today either. I think maybe he’s taken the wife’s comments on board and is going to do some different things with the kids. Maybe she won’t need us any more.”

Suddenly they were discussing work, and this could have been any Friday night in the Tottenham. Their food arrived, satisfying platefuls of rich steak pie covered in gravy, with plenty of chips. Robin tucked in heartily, pausing sometimes to think about something he’d said or to interject, waving a chip for emphasis. She laughed at his jokes. They ordered more drinks. And Strike could see exactly what Robin had meant earlier. He liked good food and good wine, but not always the hush and reverence that seemed to have to accompany them. Far better to have an animated discussion about work over a slightly sticky table, with a plateful of chips and gravy and a couple of pints of passable real ale, and her dazzling and relaxed company. He couldn’t imagine Robin engaging in any of the mind games and tricks that had often made his many fancy meals out with Charlotte an exercise in tension and passive-aggressive silences.

Eventually Robin sat back and pushed her plate away. “Stuffed,” she declared, and giggled as Strike pulled her plate across to his and transferred her remaining chips into his gravy. She watched fondly as he carried on eating.

“You moved the furniture,” she said suddenly, her mind back in her beautiful new bedroom.

“Er, yeah. We had to guess where it went.”

“We?”

“Ah, yeah, I forgot that bit. I had to ask Nick to help, I hope that’s okay. I couldn’t safely do the ceiling edges.”

Robin’s eyes grew wide. “God, yeah, of course. I was climbing on and off that chair all day.”

Strike nodded. “Yeah, I decided I’d likely kill myself trying that. Or at least knock myself out on the edge of the bed or something. So I got Nick in to help, and yeah, we put the furniture back. We didn’t know where you had it, but we put the chest of drawers on the green patch.” He grinned at her.

Robin chuckled. “Yeah, I was going to tackle that, but I’d just had enough, and I’ve been busy every night this week.”

“Well, out of sight, out of mind.”

“Yeah, and I love the new arrangement. I’d probably just have chucked it all back where it was, but it makes it feel even more like it’s a new space.”

“In fact...” she went on as he slid his empty plate away. Her hand crept across the table to his again. “I think we should go and have another look, don’t you?”

Strike had managed to gather his thoughts together a little in the time that had elapsed since they were last in her bedroom a couple of hours ago. He smiled softly and tangled his fingers with hers.

“Robin, you know I don’t expect anything.”

“I know.”

“But I do—” He stopped and started again. “I do want this. Us. But, you know. Properly. Not just a fling. I was waiting for you to be ready for that, after...” He trailed off.

Robin gazed at him for a long moment.

“You know the real reason I was out of sorts this week?”

He frowned at the apparent change of subject. “Not the paint?”

“No. Well, yeah, but no.” She grinned. “Irina.”

Strike gave her a puzzled look.

“Cormoran, I was only decorating in the first place so I didn’t have to think about you spending the weekend with her. So I wasn’t just boring old Robin who always does the laundry and the cleaning and the shopping and goes back to work on Monday. So I could feel a bit glamorous and like I do things on a whim too.”

A grin crept across Strike’s face. “Ellacott, were you jealous?”

Her cheeks were pink, but she held his gaze. “I was. And then you were going out with her again on Tuesday, or so I thought—”

“That was Nick.”

“—and then you wanted me to take your job on Friday so you could have a personal day...” Robin paused and grinned. “Let’s just say I was glad it wasn’t what it looked like.”

Her other hand crept across the table, grabbing his in both of her own. “What I’m trying to say is I don’t want a fling either. I’ve been waiting too.”

He turned his hand in hers, squeezing her fingers. “So...”

The smile still on her face turned cheeky. “So now I’ve bought you dinner and wooed you a bit, would you like to come and spend the night in my new boudoir?”

Strike swallowed hard, his heart hammering in his chest. “I would.” His voice was hoarse.

“Then let’s go,” she murmured, smiling softly, and he nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve slowed down slightly on posting because I’ve not actually written the smut yet!


	12. Glade Pool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ratings change - only really needs to be M for now, but maybe E for next chapter so we’ve gone all the way. As it were.

Strike reached for his coat, but was stilled by Robin’s hand on his arm. He paused, looking at her. “What’s up?”

“Um...” She glanced around, seeing no one near, and her eyes darted back to his and away again.

Strike covered her hand on his arm with his own. “What is it?”

“Er—” Robin took a deep breath and blew out her cheeks, which were scarlet now. “Ugh, I’m not good at this stuff. I just thought—” She took another breath. “I don’t have any... There’s a vending machine in the ladies’...”

Realisation dawned. Strike gave her a gentle smile. “It’s okay. If we, er, get that far, I have some.”

Robin nodded, relieved, glancing at him quickly and away again. “Sorry to be so...” She made a helpless gesture. “I never really had to think about it, I was on the pill for years and years, but I stopped because I didn’t need it any more, so...”

Strike grinned. “Well, I don’t normally carry them about, but I bought some last weekend and somehow never ended up needing them.”

Tension broken, Robin giggled. “Lucky me in more ways than one, then.”

Strike gazed at her, serious suddenly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so glad to have missed a date in my life.”

This made her feel tearful again all of a sudden.

“Soppy,” she told him, blinking rapidly. His soft smile told her he’d seen.

“Come on, get your coat,” she added, and surreptitiously wiped her eyes while they stood and pulled on coat and jacket and made their way to the door.

Strike lit a cigarette, and Robin slid her hand into his again as they strolled towards her flat, glad of a moment to gather her thoughts. She’d vaguely assumed that when the time eventually came, as it must, for her to sleep with someone new, someone who wasn’t Matthew, that she would be afraid. That all the old fears that she had battled so hard to conquer would rise back up.

She was delighted to find them absent. She felt nothing but a nervous trepidation that was surely normal at the prospect of a new partner. Not for the first time, she cursed her relative inexperience. How could she be sailing so close to her thirtieth birthday and have only slept with her husband? Most of her nerves came from worrying that she’d compare badly to the other women who had been in Strike’s life.

But the way he looked at her, like she was the only woman in the world—

“Here we are.” With a start, Robin realised that Strike had stopped walking and they were at her front door. She scrabbled in her bag for her key, let them in, and they climbed the stairs to her flat.

Once inside, they stripped off coats and hung them by the door.

Strike hesitated. Robin had been quiet, thoughtful, on their walk back. He wondered if she was having second thoughts.

He deliberately moved away from her, stepping across to the little sofa, giving her space. “Shall we have a cup of tea?”

Robin hesitated, glancing towards the bedroom and back to him, a sly grin creeping across her face. “You really want a cup of tea?”

He smiled gently back. “Not especially. But I’m more than happy to have a cuppa and stroll on home.”

“Well, I want you to stay.”

He laughed a little and nodded. “I’d like that, too. In which case—”

“What?”

Strike shrugged. “It’s been a long, hot day in my oldest clothes. Mind if I have a quick shower before—” he swallowed “—bed?”

Robin stepped across to him. “You could,” she said, sliding her arms around him. “But my shower is awfully small. There’s only room for one person at a time.”

He grinned down at her. “So...?”

“I reckon the bath would fit two.”

His grin broadened. “I like the sound of that,” he replied, and kissed her.

Robin kissed him back, sliding her tongue into his mouth, thrilling to the way he groaned deep in his throat and kissed her back. She explored him for a minute then gently drew away. “I’ll go and run the bath,” she murmured, smiling.

Once the bath was going, she returned to the living room. Strike had moved through to the bedroom and was pottering about. She went to stand in the doorway and smiled at him putting his wallet on the bedside table, sitting to take his boots off. She was glad he’d been here all day, felt comfortable in her space.

She went to kitchenette and poured two small whiskies while Strike made his way through to the bathroom. She kept out of the way, letting him deal with his clothes and leg. She went to the cupboard in her bedroom and grabbed two big fluffy towels, and then went and knocked on the bathroom door.

“Come on in.” His deep voice sounded relaxed, and when she went in he was already in the bath, laying back in the hot water. His clothes were neatly folded by the wall next to his propped leg.

Robin’s eyes were drawn inexorably to the sight of her big, burly partner in her bath. The bubbles she had added covered him from the waist down, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his broad, thickly haired chest, the muscles across his shoulders and upper arms. She’d known he had good upper body strength, she’d seen him pull himself in and out of vehicles, up stairs. But to see the evidence of it...

He’d seen her looking. Blushing a little, Robin set down the whiskies on two corners of the bath and started to strip off her clothes. He watched her shamelessly, making her blush harder, her fingers fumbling with her shirt buttons and bra, until finally she was naked in front of him, fighting the urge to cover herself up again. She wasn’t nearly as slim, these days, as she had been during her marriage.

His eyes roved over her, dark with desire. “You’re so sexy,” he murmured. “Come here.”

Robin hesitated. The taps sat at the opposite end to him, so she couldn’t climb in that way. She settled for climbing in with her back to him, lowering herself to sit between his legs, and he slid wet arms around her and pulled her against him, his arms sliding around her waist below her breasts, her back against his chest and her head on his shoulder.

Her colour deepened as she felt him stirring beneath her, his cock hardening against her lower back, and she dropped her head back with a sigh, tilting her face up to his.

Strike kissed her, the angle awkward, and then he reached for the flannel and dipped it into the water. Robin shivered with anticipation, goosebumps already washing across her skin, but all he did was lift the flannel out again, squeezing it gently above her, watching the water cascade down over her stomach. He dipped the flannel again and moved his hand higher, his chin resting on her shoulder so he could watch the rivulets of water run across her breasts and down the valley between them. It was delicious and warm, and somehow unbelievably sensuous. Robin could feel the goosebumps tightening her skin, her nipples hardening, could feel the twitch of his cock beneath her in response.

He dipped the flannel again and trailed it lightly across her breast, and Robin gave a low moan of pleasure as the soft cloth dragged across her skin, her head dropping back onto his shoulder and her eyes closing. Turning his face into hers, Strike began to kiss her cheek, his stubble rasping gently across her skin while he drew the flannel up and around each breast, down between them, into the water and back up again, slow, lazy circles.

A deep, warm ache was rapidly growing between her thighs as he worked, slow and unhurried, his breath washing across her ear, his breathing unsteady but his hands sure and gentle. Somehow he’d lost the flannel and it was his hands sliding on her skin now, cupping her breasts reverently, his fingers gently teasing her nipples into hard peaks, making her moan again, dipping more and more water across her.

Her breath came faster as his right hand slid down to splay across her stomach, his fingers dipping down into the water. She had thought she would be shy; but, desperate for him to touch her, she parted her legs, her thighs over his, her left foot sliding along his leg and hitching up over it to give him more access. Nipping gently at her earlobe with his teeth, Strike took her invitation, and his fingers slid down into her curls below the water.

Robin whimpered as he touched her, fingertips gently stroking down to her entrance and back up to her clit, gentle and unhurried. His left hand still circled her breast, his fingers brushing her nipple, while his right moved below the water.

He was barely touching her now, fingers stroking lightly, slowly, up and down her clit, teasing it gently, but pleasure she could never have imagined swelled within her. She was aware of the low sounds of delight she made as her body shivered against his, and of his answering hum of appreciation, felt almost as much as heard where they were pressed together. The slide of his fingertips was so delicious, languid and unhurried, making her ache with need.

Robin could have lain like this for ever, allowing him to bring her higher and higher, but it had been so, so long since anyone had touched her, and her body was racing ahead of itself. The pleasure swept through her, heat clenching hard in her groin, little whimpers of need escaping her, and then it broke and the pulses echoed through her. Her back arched and she groaned, long and low, as ecstasy rolled though her in waves.

He seemed to know the exact moment to stop, his fingers stilling and sliding away as she slumped back against him, panting. His hands resumed their gentle movements across her skin, caressing her stomach, and he kissed her cheek softly as she lay, dazed and amazed, in his arms.

“Mm.” Robin hummed with satisfaction, boneless and relaxed against his chest, and smiled as his answering rumble reverberated through her again.

She lay for long minutes, drifting on satiation, thinking about nothing.

Eventually she gathered herself back together a little. Strike’s hands gently caressed her skin, and she could feel him, still hard against her back. “We should get out,” she murmured.

He slid his arms right around her, hugging her even closer. “I’m in no hurry.”

Robin grinned at the ceiling, finally opening her eyes. “We’ll get pruney.”

He chucked in her ear. “So?”

“And cold.”

His hands slid away from her, reaching for one of the the forgotten glasses. “We have whisky for that.”

Robin hummed and sat up a little, grabbed her own glass. Much as she was enjoying this too, there was no denying the water was cooling rapidly. She wriggled around a little to look at Strike, slightly shy suddenly, but her reticence was driven away by the adoring look he gave her, by the way he leaned forward and kissed her, whisky on his tongue.

The angle was still a little awkward. Robin drew back, grinning.

“Well, I’m getting cold, so I’m going to bed,” she declared. “You joining me?”

“Definitely.” His dark eyes held a look of intent that made her shiver.

Robin stood, glass in one hand, and stepped daintily out of the bath. She grabbed her towel, and was forced to put her glass down for a moment to wrap herself.

“I’ll see you in there,” she said, smiling softly, and he nodded. Grinning, Robin strolled through to her bedroom - her beautiful, pale teal bedroom - to dry herself and get into bed to wait for him.


	13. Velvet Evening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here be the smut.

By the time Strike made his way through to the bedroom, Robin had dried herself off and hung her towel over her cupboard door. She’d climbed into bed to wait for him, stretching languidly under the covers, her body humming with pleasure and anticipation.

She watched, a little shy, as he entered the room, his towel slung across his hips, his prosthetic foot a contrast to his naked, real one. He grinned at her and came to sit on the edge of the bed.

He was so huge in her small space, so masculine with his broad shoulders and copious hair. Robin grinned back at him, at the incongruity of his presence, naked in her bedroom when only hours ago he had still just been her colleague and boss.

She sat up while Strike unstrapped his leg and set it aside, shifting herself closer to run her hands across his back, to kiss his shoulder while he cast aside the towel and turned towards her.

The covers had fallen to her waist, and he reached a hand to slide around the side of her ribcage and around her back, encouraging her forward into a kiss.

They’d not kissed properly since before dinner, but this was different, languid and unhurried. Strike slid his hands into her hair and his tongue into her mouth, and Robin hummed her appreciation at the feel of him, at the taste of whisky on his tongue, at the heat that was already coiling in her belly again as they explored one another’s mouths. Her hand moved to his chest.

He’d had a chance to explore her, but she’d barely touched him until now. She moved across him, exploring his copious hair with tentative fingers, and he shivered beneath her touches.

“Okay?” she murmured against his mouth, and Strike nodded, his breathing unsteady, as Robin moved a little closer so she could slide her other hand across him too.

His hair was softer than she’d expected, thick and dark, and she carded her fingers through it, enjoying the way his breathing became more ragged as she stroked and gently scratched with her fingernails. She nuzzled her face into his neck while she touched him, kissing across his skin.

“Very okay,” he murmured, and she chuckled softly into his neck.

She stroked him for long minutes. He was making no attempt to reach for her, to take control, allowing her to explore and steer this part of their encounter.

Eventually Robin drew back and patted the space in the middle of the bed.

“Come here,” she murmured, and Strike nodded and pulled himself properly onto the bed, sitting with his back to the wall.

Robin hesitated just a moment, then with a cheeky grin she clambered across him, straddling him and sitting on his thighs, skin against skin. Strike smiled up at her, his hands moving to her waist, sliding down across her hips and around her back, up to her shoulder blades to encourage her slowly towards him to kiss her again.

They kissed for long minutes, heat building. Robin was very aware of his erection between them, half nervous and half excited to explore it but not wanting to rush. She was enjoying simply kissing him, letting the heat build.

She slid her hands from Strike’s neck down across his chest, fascinated to explore his hair again, and he grinned against her lips. His hands slid too, down from her shoulders and along her arms, down again around her back to her bottom, growling a little in appreciation as he caressed the curves of her arse. Robin would have said if asked that there was rather too much of her in that area these days, but he clearly liked it, his big hands cupping her easily. He tugged gently, encouraging her closer, and Robin slid forwards on his thighs so he could pull her snug against him.

Robin broke free from the kiss with a soft gasp at the feel of his cock, hard against her stomach, instinctively rocking against him and drawing a deep groan from his throat, his hands involuntarily pulling her even closer, tighter against him, his hips moving restlessly back at her.

Heat was building fast, his kisses becoming hotter, fiercer. Strike slid his hands from her backside up and around to her breasts, and she moaned into his mouth as he caressed her and stroked his thumbs across her nipples, tantalisingly gentle. She pressed herself forward into his hands, wanting more, and he obliged, pinching gently so that she broke free of the kiss with a gasp.

Robin buried her face in his neck, dragging her hair out of the way with splayed fingers so that she could kiss his skin, mouthing and nipping at him, fascinated at the way he melted in her arms as she did, his head dropping back against the wall with a long, low moan as she kissed her way from his ear down to his shoulder and made her way back up to his jaw. He shuddered helplessly with pleasure as she worked, ducking her head a little to suck at his throat, enjoying the harshness of his breathing and the way his hands clutched at her sides.

“Fuck, Robin—” Strike’s broken whisper sent a fierce surge of arousal through her. She returned to his mouth and kissed him hard, and he kissed her back, pulling her close so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. Instinctively she rocked against him again, her hips canting forward against his erection between them. Her clit slid against him, and her head dropped back from the kiss with a groan of pleasure. She felt his cock pulse between them in answer and rocked again, causing his breath to hitch sharply.

Robin dropped her head forwards and they met one another’s gazes, stormcloud blue and inky dark, their breathing uneven. The heat between them was a palpable thing in the room, a thing of sudden urgency and need.

“Robin—” Strike murmured, his voice hoarse, and she could see the battle he was having with himself, to move at what he perceived to be her pace, to take things slowly.

Her eyes on his, she reached across to his bedside table for his wallet and handed it to him.

He drew a slow, shuddering breath at her meaning, and reached up to kiss her again, fierce and hot and brief, and then he was fumbling the wallet open with trembling hands, pulling the little foil packet free.

Grinning, Robin took the wallet and tossed it aside while Strike opened the condom and rolled it into position.

She looked down at him in the dim light from her bedside lamp. It had finally grown dark outside, the evening warm and close, and Robin smiled gently and leaned to lick a bead of sweat from his temple, making him shudder again beneath her.

“I want you,” she whispered. “I’ve wanted you for ever.”

“God, me, too, Robin,” he groaned. Watching for her cues, seeking permission, he slid a hand between them, his fingers ghosting down her stomach, and Robin canted her hips to give him access as his exploring fingers eased beneath her.

He caressed her, feather-light touches on her clit, feeling her press down against his hand as she moaned with desire. Her fingers found his cock, aching between them, and she ghosted gentle touches across it that made him shiver with need. Her hips were rocking now, seeking more friction from his fingers, and he explored her swollen wetness with deft fingertips. Her hand closed around his erection and he groaned, his desire rising with hers. She pressed herself forward against him, breasts against his chest, trying to push herself down onto his stroking fingers to increase the pressure, aching for him.

“Fuck, Cormoran,” Robin muttered at last. “I want you so much.”

He answered with a groan of need, and her hands slid around to the back of his neck and she pulled herself up onto her knees, her chest pressing towards him. He buried his face in her breasts as she held herself over him, gently rubbing her slick folds over the tip of his erection, gasping a little now, trying to keep control. Then Strike nipped gently at her nipple with his lips and she gave a small cry of need and sank onto him.

His only answer was a throaty groan of pleasure as he filled her. As she reached the base of him, her knees spread wide, his hips jerked up into her and she gave a hitching gasp as her clit rubbed against him, pressed between them. “Fuck...” she whispered, pleasure and desire clenching within her.

“God, yeah,” he muttered his agreement, trembling beneath her, forcing himself to hold still while they adjusted to one another.

“Okay?” he murmured after a moment, seeking her mouth again to kiss her, and Robin drew a shaky breath and kissed him passionately, her tongue swirling against his, holding herself still, stretched over him. The pleasure within her was at fever pitch even without movement.

“Yes,” she whispered raggedly. “God, that’s so good.” She felt him nod against her in agreement, his answering rumble felt as much as heard.

Robin began to rock slowly against him, holding his shoulders and sliding herself up and down on him, groaning deeply with pleasure, her eyes glazing over.

Strike leaned his head back a little to watch her, so aroused to see and hear the pleasure storming through her as she moved against him. He’d waited so long for this moment and desperately wanted to savour it, but she swept his desire along with hers and his eyes drifted closed as pleasure began to overwhelm him. The time for savouring would come later, he thought hazily. She felt the same way; they had all the time in the world.

Robin rocked up against him steadily, groaning raggedly now as her self-control began to shred. Strike drew deep, shuddering breaths, fighting against a tidal wave of pleasure, trying to hold on for her, burying his face in her neck as she moved. The sound of her moans of pleasure, the feel of her around him, the roll of her hips as she thrust against him, were driving him dangerously close to the edge, but he couldn’t have stopped if he’d wanted to, carried along by her desire. A few more thrusts, and suddenly her groans turned to gasping cries and he felt her clench around him as her orgasm swept through her. With a muffled groan he let go and joined her, his hips jerking up into her as his release poured through him, pulsing within her.

Shuddering, Robin slowed, still enjoying the feeling of him in her and against her, rocking a little as she began to get her breath back, eventually stilling and resting against him, her forehead on his. They were both slick with sweat.

Eventually she drew away a little and smiled dreamily at him, kissed him slowly. “That was amazing,” she murmured against his mouth, and he nodded shakily. “God, it was.”

He was softening inside her; she slid off him and sank down into the bed as Strike swung away to deal with the condom. When he turned back she reached for him, tugging him down to lie next to her. Strike dragged the covers up over them both and pulled her into his arms, and they lay together, blissed out, breath and sweat mingling and cooling.

With a rumble of contentment, Strike hugged her closer, his heart swelling with fondness at the sound of her sleepy, wordless answer. She was still curled around him, her head against his chest, when sleep claimed him.


	14. Morning Dew

Strike awoke next morning when Robin crawled back into bed with him, hauling the covers up and draping herself across him, tucking her face into his neck. He rumbled his appreciation at the feel of her and pulled her closer, wrapping his arms around her.

“Morning,” she murmured, kissing his neck, and he smiled and turned to meet her lips with his. She smelled minty fresh, had clearly been to the bathroom and brushed her teeth while she was there.

“Morning,” he replied, sliding a hand into her silky hair and pressing soft kisses to her lips, her cheek. “You okay?”

She grinned and stretched, languid. “Mm-hm. You? Did you sleep okay?”

“I did,” he said watching appreciatively as she stretched long limbs, arching her back a little.

“Kettle’s on,” she said, “but I thought I’d come and sneak back into bed while I waited.”

“Good plan,” he murmured. He wondered what she wanted to do today, was hoping it didn’t involve getting out of bed any time soon.

Robin laid her head on his shoulder and drifted, languid and half asleep, until she heard the click of the kettle. She rolled away to go and make the tea, and Strike admired the back view of her, naked, as she left the room, and then he sat up and reached for his leg. He, too, could do with a bathroom visit and to freshen up.

By the time he got back, a steaming mug of tea sat on the bedside table on “his” side of the bed, and Robin was lying waiting for him, a cheeky half-smile on her face as she watched him shamelessly. He set his leg aside again and got back into the bed with her.

“What do you want to do today?” she asked him, a twinkle in her eye.

Strike grinned. “I can think of a few things before today even starts,” he replied, and Robin giggled. She sat up and picked up her tea, cupping her mug and blowing on the steam just like she did at the office, only now she was naked, the beautiful curves of her breasts and the creamy freckled skin across her shoulders unselfconsciously revealed to him. It was like a miracle.

Strike sat too, picked up his mug. Creosote tea, just as he liked it.

“Well,” Robin began. “Not that we’re all about the food, but I know I need to feed you.” She grinned. “There’s a cafe a couple of streets over that does a good full English, and proper tea in mugs.”

“I like the sound of that,” Strike replied.

“And...” Robin hesitated. “Maybe we could do the Tottenham tonight? If— I mean, if two nights in a row isn’t too much?”

He smiled at her gently. “I’d like that too.”

She grinned, relieved, so beautiful it stopped him in his tracks again and he found himself just gazing at her until she blushed and looked away.

“But—” she went on, still blushing “—I’m in no hurry to get up.” She sneaked him a cheeky sideways glance that sent a surge of lust through him.

“Neither am I,” he replied, his voice low and husky, and Robin reached to kiss him across their mugs.

Humming her appreciation at the taste of him, she parted her lips and touched her tongue to his, inviting him to explore, which he did thoroughly, until they were forced to part or risk spilling half-drunk mugs of tea.

Robin shifted herself closer to him and he slid an arm around her. She relaxed back against him with a sigh of contentment and sipped her tea. Quiet descended on them as they relaxed together, content to just be, with the air full of the promise of more.

“What are you thinking?” Robin asked presently.

Strike bent his head to drop a kiss onto her shoulder, his arm around her easing her back closer against his chest. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

She felt him grin against her skin. “I was thinking about Nick.”

Robin burst into giggles, her body shuddering delightfully against his, making him feel dizzy. “That was so not what I was expecting you to say,” she laughed. “Why are you thinking about Nick?”

Strike chuckled a little against her shoulder, his deep voice echoing through her where they were pressed together. He waved his mug vaguely at the top of the wall where it joined the ceiling. “He missed a bit.”

Robin squinted up at the place in question, where the beautiful soft aqua of the walls met the white of the ceiling. “Where? I can’t see a gap.”

Strike peered too. “Maybe it’s a trick of the light. Thought I saw a hint of the other green.”

Robin turned and set her empty mug on her bedside table. “We can look properly later when I open the curtains,” she said. “You finished with your tea?”

Strike set his mug aside too. “I have.”

“Then I have much more important things for you to focus on than your wonderful paintwork.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he growled, and slid down into the bed with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have made up some paint names 😂


End file.
